་ "Intolerable," thought I, "how dare he anticipate any thing about me? How dare he to presume to know any thing of my character? I fear your anticipations may not be realized," said I, along with a very polite move, as we separated. "So that is the way to be popular is it, Amy ?" said Raimond, "it seems very easy to do. You have only to refuse every reasonable request made to you, and to object to every rational suggestion addressed to you. I think I could do that." 66 My dear Raimond, I did not want to be popular with Mr. Malone. I don't esteem him sufficiently." 66 Probably you esteem him as much as I csteem Mrs. Lennox." "You ought to esteem Mrs. Lennox; and besides, it is so very injudicious to neglect her." 66 'Oh, I recollect. She is related to the royal family, is she not? But really, Amy, is it not very injudicious to neglect Mr. Malone? He is connected with your dear friend, Mr. Seyton. Suppose he suggests to him to withdraw his patronage from that little boy you want to have placed in the Orphan Asylum ?" "Mr. Seyton will mind his suggestions, just as much as I should do." "Certainly, no less. How kind it is of you, Amy, to give me this immediate lesson in the art of being popular. It is quite original. I should scarcely have devised it. Not very common on this earth, I imagine. Perhaps it is their way up in the moon, your native star, you know. She is not shining on you just now, but that is of no consequence. You were undoubtedly mesmerized by the man in the moon some time ago, and the influence is not yet worn out." "I fear your memory is wearing out, Raimond. I told you, not five minutes ago, that I did not like either Mr. Malone's plan about the reading-room, or his way of proceeding with it. How can you expect me to accede to them ?" "And, dear Amy, have not I told you that I don't like either to exhibit my paintings to Mrs. Lennox, or your way of inviting her for that purpose,-how can you expect me to accede to them ?" This being the argumentum ad absurdum, which it is well known admits no answer, I did not attempt to furnish it with one, and so we moved on for some time, beneath the winter sunshine, in silence; I, musing over our past dialogue, till its drollery struck me with accumulated force, and I broke out in merry laughter, to which the noble trees under which we were walking, rang again. "What is the joke, dear Amy ?" said Raimond. Do flet me enjoy it with you." 66 "Oh, Raimond; how ridiculous is every thing you have been saying this morning." "It were not polite to excel in wisdom my fair companion, Amy." "Now do, for once, try if you can say what you really think." "Well then, I think I have a very nice little sister, and that it is difficult, if not impossible to put her out of temper." If Raimond's opinion were but true. He does not generally sin in flattering, but on this point he is scarcely a judge, though his proceedings would test the equanimity of some young ladies. With me his teasing does not go deep enough,-it is just what I expect; and besides it amuses me so much that I cannot be angry for genuine mirth. Still it is very pleasant for one's only brother to hold this belief; and instead of undeceiving him, I must try to merit it on other occasions, when temper is really more tried than he would suppose. I know that slight unkindnesses which I think are real-slight inattentions even from people for whom I care but little-slight differences of opinion even, when they see unexpected, and pertinacious, leave a serenity that is often merely external. We can all stand temptation well, that does not assail our peculiar weakness. How steadily the snow has been falling while I have been writing!-writing to answer almost your sole inquiry, whether Raimond is as mischievous and entertaining as ever? Are you answered? Judge for yourself. Oh, the heavy snow! It seems to me to melt into my spirits, and weigh them down. When will it go away? One, two, three days I have been in sight of the breakfast-room fire, for no other cheering sight has been in reach—not even Raimond. It is quite hearth-chaining to think one has to traverse that long gallery where the breezes (not of the sweet South) hold their court, and as Raimond is safely ensconced in his beloved library, and, as he sagaciously remarks, it is as far from the library down to the breakfast-room, as from the breakfast-room up to the library, there we remain. One, two, three days,-only three? they seem numerous, because I have been longing to reach Mr. Orton's study, with a book which he wishes to read, and I wish to lend him,-guess what it is ?-you never will ;—why Southey's Poetical Works, which have every chance of being conned, could he only set eyes on them, by the anti-poesy Mr. Orton. How powerful is phrenological asseveration! And then my poor people, all these three days have I been pondering whether their pennies are storing up for me, or being dispersed in supplying the requirements of the cold and hungry. I really think I should rush out in a desperate longing, to see an additional face or two, at the risk of being chilled to where the heart-warmth begins, if I had not met a small contre-tems when I actually did so, yesterday evening, which is rather discouraging. I called on Miss Melville, and she, before long, stated that Mr. Erdene was in the study, and dispatched a message to ask him down to tea. The misjudging man. He returned for answer, that he had finished his search in some volume there, and unfortunately had not time to stay tea. If I had but had courage to take the message myself, I think I could have enlightened him as to his amount of time. Now suppose all the people I specially want to see should be just elsewhere, when I call? That style of calamity generally performs a chorus, if it sings an opening part; or pours, like the rain, if it rains at all. I am out of spirits, and dare not risk it. By the way, I must give you a judgment of the concert. I had almost forgotten. Miss Dolby's clear, rich, hautboy voice exhilarated, and her luxuriant beauty tranquillised us. I do not know how better to describe the effect of her aspect-its splendour is soothing, delicious. Her voice has little passion and little fancy, but great, and high power. It reminds us of Malibran's by contrast. The emotion it excites is more akin to that awakened by elevated statuary, than glowing painting. Her manner, independently of her singing, was bewilderingly arch as ever. But what shall I say of Thalberg? Why, his manner, independently of his playing, is unchanged, too. He never reminded one more of a prince in a citizen's dress-he never looked more as if there moved with him a region of beauty unseen by any eyes but his mild, dreamy ones. His face had not lost the look of calmness inspired by a soul, whose each impulse has attaining power. His touch was still all-expressing-his execution-but it is incongruous to speak of his execution who rules the instrument as though his will flowed through it. He never bore him more, not as if he played to answer the excited demand of a visible audience, but to give sensible response to the thoughts that stirred in him. All that met the eye, was the same-it was the music for the ear, the soul, the mind, that was so altered. We heard rich chordsruns of endless difficulty-airs arranged with imposing effect-in the stead of musical thoughts on which the mind could dwell, even without sound-themes most originally developed-combinations of imagined intricacy, to be unravelled, we dreamt not how, but of which his clear mind held the clue, for it fashioned them. One thing he gave us, a schergo, in which something of his old power appeared of following out a thought, but it was a smaller effort for his genius than L'Allegro, to the mind that could plan Paradise Lost. He has left his high throne to make sport for a populace. He has ceased to compose for the minds that could appreciate his grand ideas, and who will eventually control the judgment of the multitude: he composes now for popular applause-it will be passing. He listens no longer while he writes, to the fame that may be storing for him a thousand ages hencethe adulation of the present hides it from him. Does he indeed, write now? The lightly modulations of melodies to which we last listened, would not require of him that they should be made in the brain-written at the desk, before one of their sounds arose from the piano. He has ceased to bear us up with him into a world of high thought, where musical sound seemed the echo of high speculation-all fervent feeling a world that kept its paths for only him. His "Prayer," from Mosé in Egitto, with which he answered an encore, seemed a strain to which those we had listened to a little time before, had nothing that was akin—a glory from the past. We once could say of Thalberg, that he owed nothing to the superficial-to trick, to extravagance, to affectation; that all his unequalled results, all the deep emotion he excited, came from the most legitimate-the highest sources. Now, we cannot say this. Shall we not say it again? Will not the glare pass, and he, in the light of his own high perceptions, see that it is better worth to compose up to his own pure ideal, than down to the low one of his superficial hearers? Will he not feel there is less joy in their applause, than in the happy exercise of his unequalled powers? The happy exercise!—what to such a man as Thalberg, can be any external felicity, even that of appreciating admiration, compared with the delight of unfolding his own beautiful ideas-his glorious images? He must yearn again for that happiness some time. O, I trust it will be before his all-inclusive power is weakened, by being so imperfectly employed-straitened by its depths being unsoundedits energies inactive. I am interrupted-but I have said my say-all I wish to express now of present disappointment in Thalberg-of future hope. I am interrupted by a welcome visitor-the post; it brings me two letters; one is only for myself; and one encloses a card, that gives news of Annot's marriage. Now she is Annot-did I tell you the name of her beloved? Now try if your own penetration will reach it. Another interruption-another note; I did not hear the bell ring-no need it should; this comes from the library—a reply to a petition for Raimond's presence here, in my domain; and an appeal from my past kindness. It is characteristic. "Raimond continues to sympathise most protestingly with dear Amy, and begs to assure her very repeatedly, that he is the kindest of brothers." Very satisfactory, is it not? "Continues to sympathise;" thereby hangs a tale-but I have not time to tell it now, nor flexible fingers either. Something very mysterious, since I wrote yesterday, dear Edith. I want to send off my letter, but I just insert it for your meditation, as I have no solution to annex. We went last night to meet the Severtons very quietly at the Mertons. Nothing remarkable occurred; it was only remarkable that something did not occur. C'est-à-dire, that Raimond did not look at Ima Severton as though she were something peculiarly pleasant to look upon, but turned his regards anywhere else; and tried very perseveringly whether there were any conversation to be extracted from a very silent young lady, an experiment I never saw him make so much at length before. Only now and then I caught a sort of unintentional glance from him towards Ima; and the expression of his face involuntarily reminded me of the song of the Morning Star: "I cannot kindle underneath the brow Of this new angel here, who is not thou,— Perhaps it is as well he should not, for he was not very shining that evening. I am not at all sure I shall learn what the matter is. Raimond may take a high fit of reserve, and profess to be unconscious he is altered in manner; and Ima looks so innocent and serene; I feel certain she has nothing to tell: but I fancy the cause will suggest itself at some corner or other. Still, it may not be tellable. Good bye, naughty Edith; rejoice in the thought that I am in charity with you, and am your AMY DE VESCI. LEGENDS OF ANTIQUE YEARS. No. VI. THE RETURN OF ADONIS. My gaze ascends long the stream of time, Far up to the hills of old, Where Powers whose home was the skies sublime With man would fair converse hold. When glorious shapes by the sun-lit earth By the mid-sun shaded stream; Forms from Olympus that claim'd their birth Would on eyes that were mortal beam. When by river, shore, or 'neath dew-bright elms In love that made equal moved; Steps that could bound through the starry realms, And those but o'er earth that roved. Oh, graceful time! when the shapes of earth And each high thought that man's soul It shrined in a form as fair. gave birth Yet were the Gods of the hills and streams The Rulers of human kind. Ah! through sunny mist round those far off years Break they on me, and the Now appears Q'ershone as a dim dark dream. |